Stop eating me she said and moved away from the knife
rack as I carved a new notch in my verbal position,
edible, it said and read backwards elbidle that meant
so much more to me seeing as how it was designed for
others to see and not me. Can you read, can you read,
can you eat me?
I stop trying to consume her and let her be like the
lettuce at the back of the fridge that had ceased to
be lettuce but was more like the fur you find on the
backs of small mammals and deranged esoteric
derogatory notes that you leave on my desk. I hate
them.
Our romance needs a new turn, one that speaks volumes
to fridges without dirigible thermometer hinges and
where I can smell the rest of the room through
borrowed olfactory looms that you lent me from your
mother's shop, the one that burned down around when I
stopped sniffing glue and became someone just like
edible you.
